by M J Preston
Johnny Proudfoot recounted the story of Jack Fiddler and his brother Joseph who were said to have hunted and killed many wendigo. It was believed that if silver pierced a wendigo’s heart, it would die instantly. Fiddler was a Shaman, Chief of Ojibwa Cree blood and well known for his power at defeating wendigo.
“The White Man brought him up on charges of murder in the early 1900s,” Proudfoot said. “Fiddler took his own life, and they executed his brother Joseph.” But Skin was not a run of the mill wendigo if one at all. The monster could metamorphose like a skinwalker: hence the name the Chocktee had given it.
Blackbird considered the variations on the mythology and the crossover to other creatures of lore. The Wendigo was not unlike the werewolf or the vampire – but then he thought that Jackanoob was not a wendigo or a skinwalker. He was, in fact, an offspring of the black orb.
In the back of his mind he could hear the children of Chocktee tittering and calling out to each other in the darkness: “Skin’s going to get you!”
He abandoned these memories and thought about accommodations. Just in time, a taxi pulled up to the bus stop, and the driver rolled down his window asking, “You looking for a ride somewhere?”
“Yes, and a cheap motel. Can you recommend one?”
“There’s only one available; reporters got everything else booked up. Thomasville Motor-Inn. Hop in. It’ll cost you ten bucks for the ride.” The driver reached over behind the passenger seat and the rear door.
Blackbird picked up his bag and tossed it on the bench seat, then climbed in.
The driver was an older man, and he sported an earring in one ear. The interior of the cab was clean, but had seen better days: the grey material on the seats was chafed. An old meter in the front looked like it had been busted for a few years.
“How far to the motel?”
“Five minutes,” the driver replied and closed the sliding door. He got in and put the van in gear. “You’re lucky you caught me. I used to roll by this stop anytime a bus came in, but since the murders, I can hardly keep up.”
They were rolling down the road. Blackbird was amazed at the openness of the prairie landscape. It was a whole lot of nothing out here. In the distance, he could see the forest, but that was miles off.
Is Skin roaming those woods, he wondered.
“I read about that in the paper. Pretty bad stuff.” Blackbird considered asking a few questions, then thought better of it. This was a one-horse town: if he asked a bunch of questions, it might draw unwanted interest.
“Bad is an understatement,” the driver said. “This fiend was killing little boys, doing God knows what with them. He should be strung up by his balls.”
Blackbird nodded.
The driver stole a glance in the rearview mirror. “So what brings you to town? You don’t look much like a reporter, and we aren’t exactly the epicenter of employment.”
“Research,” Blackbird lied. “I’m writing a book on the Métis Indian, and there are some old burial grounds in these parts I want to check out. I’ll be in town for a few days.”
The driver seemed to think this was a reasonable enough explanation. “Well then, welcome to Thomasville.”
They turned the corner and pulled into the parking lot of an older motel. The cab parked out front and Blackbird reached into his wallet and pulled out a crisp twenty dollar bill.
“Do you have a card?” he asked. “I might need a guy with some knowledge of these parts to give me a lift.” He pulled the knapsack onto his shoulder and leaned back inside the cab using a hand to steady himself.
“Absolutely.” The driver smiled and pulled one off the clipboard Blackbird had seen on the dashboard while they drove. “Name’s Bobby Morneau. I’m an independent here in Thomasville. There’s a bigger cab company, but they charge by the click. You can call me anytime.” He handed the card over, and ten dollars change.
Blackbird reached out, took the card and resisted the urge to snatch up the change. “You keep the extra ten. I’m not a rich guy, Mr. Morneau, but I might need a guy with a keen eye to show me around. My name’s Dan Blackbird.”
“You got it, Dan. The number on that card is my cell number. You need a ride I’ll go out of my way.” His smile broadened and revealed teeth stained brown with tobacco. They looked even worse under the orange glow of the Motel parking light. “Day or night,” he winked.
“Thanks. Have a good night.”
Blackbird stuck the card in the breast pocket of the jean jacket he was wearing and closed the door. He turned away from the cab and walked toward the lobby.
Behind the desk a guy in his mid-thirties, and he had stared Daniel down from the moment he stepped out of the cab. Blackbird could feel his stare, and he hoped that the guy wasn’t going to blow him off because of his heritage.
A bell jingled as he pushed open the front door. The desk clerk never took his eyes off him.
“Hi,” he said setting the knapsack down. “I need a room.”
“I’ll need some ID, sir,” replied the clerk.
Blackbird pulled out his wallet and placed his identification on the counter.
“Daniel Blackbird,” the clerk said. “I’ve been expecting you.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah, prior arrangements were made for your arrival.”
“Who made these arrangements?”
He expected to hear the name John Proudfoot but got an even more bizarre response.
“He didn’t give his name; he said you were an associate of his and that I was to make arrangements for you.” The clerk seemed jumpy, and quite possibly a little stoned. “Oh yeah, and he said to give you this.” He put an envelope down on the counter.
Blackbird stared down at the plain white envelope. His scar tingled.
“What did this guy look like? Was he Indian like me?”
The clerk puzzled for a second and shook his head. “I don’t remember his face; just his words. He said he represented a firm that wanted to remain anonymous and that you were to be given accommodations and that the envelope was to be delivered.” He added, “He didn’t look like you, Mister.”
“What do you mean, like me?”
“You look like you’ve been on the road for quite a while, rough trade. No offense.”
“None taken.”
The clerk placed a key on the counter beside the envelope. Blackbird collected them both, then peered at the blue plastic chip on the key: 14A.
“I hope the upper level is okay. It’s the best room I’ve got; the AC works, and the plumbing doesn’t make too much noise.” The clerk slid the registry forward. “Please sign here.”
Blackbird signed his name and headed out of the office. As he reached the door, the clerk said one last thing.
“His eyes.”
“What?”
“His eyes were like mirrors; kind of spooky.” The clerk was looking past him into the night as if he recalled something on a witness stand. “Hope I never meet up with the guy again.”
Hope you never do, Daniel thought. He waited to see if the clerk would say anything else, but he didn’t. Instead, he stood there staring past him out into the lot where Blackbird assumed Skin had exited.
He left the motel office and found the room. He pushed the key into the door lock, and it clicked as he turned it. He looked left and then right, thinking Skin might ambush him as he pushed the door open – but no need. He would have known if Skin was there: his senses would have alerted him to its presence.
Flicking the light on, he noted that the room had two beds, a phone, and a television. The remote control for the tv was wired to the nightstand by the bed, to keep it from being stolen. He wondered what the odds a thief who stayed in a dive like this would have the same remote control requirements on his home television. Either way, he didn’t think he would be watching much TV, so it really d
idn’t matter. A small round table sat in the corner and on it was a microwave along with a small bar fridge. That would come in handy. He could grab some canned goods at the local grocery. He set the envelope on the nightstand then picked up the phone, which rang through to the front office. “Yes, Mr. Blackbird?”
“Can I make a long distance call on this phone?” he asked.
“Yes, you can. The phones are generally locked down, but I’ll release the lock on yours. It will take about ten minutes while I program the system,” the clerk said. “Will there be anything else?”
“No, that will be fine. Thank you.”
He hung up and decided to take a shower while the clerk fixed the phone. He wanted to talk to Proudfoot about the envelope, the room, and of course the vision. This was the end of the road: he could feel it in his bones.
He stripped down naked and stood before the bathroom mirror, examining the lines on his face and how he had changed so drastically over the years. When did his smooth brown skin become pocked and marked by time? When did his jet black hair grow ashen and thin? He had once been a slim, handsome native man with features that snared more than his fair share of young ladies. Now he was weathered and beaten, and he wasn’t even thirty-five yet. As he gazed at himself in the mirror, he saw a hybrid of his Mother and Grandfather – and the other who had never taken claim on his heart.
The stranger: his father.
“You will probably die in this place,” he told the naked reflection looking back at him. “Are you prepared for that?”
He touched the scar, and it tingled a bit. Even after all these years, the skin was hard and raised.
“I will die if I have to,” he said and climbed into the shower.
2
Two hours later Scott Masterson was on his way to the casino. The Indian was checked in, and Dennis, the weekend manager, took over an hour after he sorted out the phone. Dennis had asked about the phone and Scott said it was okay, that the Indian was welcome to make a few long distance calls and that his tab had been paid up in advance.
In a small bag beside him was a thousand dollars he’d skimmed from his take. He had put the rest into the night deposit so that he would not be tempted to take more. He had spent the day writing checks and mailing them, and it seemed almost fate that the Indian guy showed up when he did.
Masterson hadn’t really expected the Indian would look like he did. He had expected some well-dressed chief in semi-formal attire. Not a guy who looked like he was out of seventies drive-in classic.
No matter: the debt was paid and his bacon had been pulled out of the fire. Tonight he was going to drop a G Note on the tables, and if the gods looked down on him, he might come home a little richer.
3
“I’m staying at the Thomasville Motor Inn, room 14A.” Blackbird was sitting on the edge of the bed wearing only a towel. “He took care of everything, paid my bill and left an envelope.”
“This is it then, Dan. He’s waiting for you,” Proudfoot said. “Have you opened the envelope?”
“I gotta be honest, Johnny: I’m kind of scared to.” As he spoke, he turned the envelope this way and that in his hand. Something inside was sliding back and forth.
“Well, open it now, and maybe we can figure this out.”
“Here goes.”
He tore the end of the envelope off and out fell a small glass vial that contained what looked like black tar. Then he pulled out the letter.
“A vial of tar? Huh? If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s trying to sell me some hash oil. There’s a note in here, too.”
“Read the note, Dan.”
He unfolded it and set in on the nightstand, then readjusted himself so that he could hold the phone and read it allowed without touching it. Touching anything from the creature, even a letter, worried him. “You listening?”
“Go ahead. I have you on speaker so the others can hear.” Proudfoot sounded tinny now, but audible.
“Alright, here goes.” Blackbird cleared his throat.
Hello, Brave Hunter.
I trust your accommodations are acceptable. Consider this my gift to you, for all the years you have devoted to me.
Much has happened since we parted ways in the cityscape. I have learned many things of this world and eaten many as well. I want you to know that I respect your fortitude, but you have become a nuisance and to be honest I am tired of running. I have decided to stay here and wait for you. In doing so, I am offering you a choice. Make your decision carefully: I will not stop my course of action once it is set into motion.
I want you to leave, Brave Hunter. Go back to life and forget about me. Take a wife, have children, spend no more time on this pursuit of which you are doomed to fail. The world is a dirty place, and the forces of nature run their own course in cleaning up the soured parts with many things. Disease, war, fire – these are all methods of cleansing. And I, too, am one of those methods.
I could swoop down now and put out your eyes if I wanted to – but I will not. I know of the burning hatred that consumes you, and I know I am the source of that hatred.
With this letter, I have left you a liquid which will give you renewal. It is my blood, Brave Hunter, and if you take of it your heart will be healed, your scar removed and your age restored to that which it was before you set your sights upon me. That is the penance I will offer you for abandoning this pointless pursuit. You need only do two things: open the original wound and pour the contents of the vial into it. Then you will be free.
If you choose not to take my offer, I will tear this place and its people apart. For every day you stay, I will double my kill until the streets run red with blood.
I will kill them all, Brave Hunter. The men, the women, the children. Their blood and suffering will be your burden to carry, a heavier load upon your shoulders than that of a weak and dying old man.
Consider the consequences and my offer. You have two days, then the blood starts flowing.
F
Blackbird set down the letter and focused on the vial which contained the creature’s blood, then thought of the black ick that had been spat into the open wound on Jackanoob’s face.
“Are you there, Johnny?”
“Yes, Dan, we all heard. Give us a minute to consult on this.”
“Take all the time you need,” he said, trying not to sound sarcastic and thought, I’ve got a whopping two days before the streets run red with blood.
As he waited, he turned the vial over and over, watching the black ooze inside it. Yeah, I’m really going to put that shit in an open wound on my face.
4
Scott Masterson could feel the buzz from the moment he closed the door of his car and started across the parking lot. Just ahead he could see the track lighting to the entrance and picked up his pace a bit. His adrenaline was beginning to pump, and he could feel the pull of the tables.
He touched the leather bag he kept his cash in and smiled as he pushed the doorway open. Ahead a security guard stood post. This big gorilla was a regular: bald head, six two and given the opportunity he looked like he could turn a bowling ball inside out.
“Good evening, sir. Welcome to the Segway.”
“How are you?” Masterson smiled and walked past him. That was part of the buzz: they made you feel like someone, even if you weren’t.
He entered the main gaming room welcomed by the cacophonous chime of slot machine bells ringing. It was music when you thought about it.
He strutted past the nickel machines where scores of senior citizens dumped their money in a quest for the elusive progressive. One might think gamblers would not judge each other, but he detested the people who played the slots, especially the old folks.
He could picture them dumping their pension checks into these machines then going home and chowing down on cat food. How pathetic.
At the
bar, he pulled a crisp twenty from his wallet and ordered a vodka and soda, then took his change and headed for the tables. He felt good tonight. The stars were on his side tonight – he was sure of it – and he would walk out with more than he walked in with.
Tonight we bet smart. No doubling up, and throw the bad cards out no matter what.
He found a $25 table with an open seat and sat down. On his right an Asian woman and on his left a very well-dressed old man. He watched the dealer lay down two cards and the deal out the remaining cards. In the circle where the ante was laid a slot was set up for each player to drop a dollar chip. This was to ensure that if a player hit a straight or royal flush, they would win the progressive. To the right of the dealer was a red digital counter that spun madly upward as each chip was deposited. A Royal Flush was worth $175,069.09 and counting upward with each hand. The odds of hitting a royal were incomprehensible, but Masterson figured he might someday, if not tonight.
The hand played out, the dealer won and collected up the chips and cards. The pit boss watched the dealer as he clapped his hands so that the eye in the sky could see he wasn’t pilfering. Scott had arrived just as they were changing dealers: a female dealer came up to the table and began to get organized. “Good evening. My name is Jessica, and good luck, everyone.”
Everyone was cordial, and Scott brought the small bag up and set it on the table. “I’d like to buy some chips before we start,” he said, unzipping the bag.
“No problem, sir; just give me a second to get organized.” Jessica loaded up three decks in the automatic shuffler. The mechanical shuffler began its job, and she ran a hand professionally across the green cloth to feel for any unseen issues that might tip a card. Happy with that, she turned to Scott and said, “Now, what can I get for you, sir?”